Port Harris, New South Wales
3 June 1901
Dear Mama,
Thank you for your last letter. I am so glad Angus is out of hospital and staying with you and Aunt Helen and Uncle Ron. I am glad I don’t have to have raw egg in orange juice though, even if it is strengthening after surgery.
Hannah blotted the page, then wiped the nib of the pen while she tried to think what else to say. She couldn’t tell Mama that Jamie had caught a tiny shark, or that Mrs Zebediah had shown her all kinds of recipes with bananas, or about the hole in the ground that was an earth oven and had a name that sounded like ‘kup marie’ where Mr Zebediah and the other Islanders had cooked a whole pig every Christmas as well as all the vegetables too.
It is still hot here in the middle of the day but the nights are cold, especially as we have no fireplace. Mrs Murphy says it will warm up again soon. I am wearing my wool combinations. The moths had got to them a bit, but I have darned them and put sandalwood chips instead of lavender with all the others to keep the moths away. I bought the chips at the market because no one grows lavender here.
Give my love to Angus and Aunt Helen and Uncle Ron.
Your loving daughter,
Hannah
***
‘The secret is to keep stirring the lemon butter,’ said Mrs Zebediah, handing Hannah a wooden spoon with a flat edge for stirring. ‘If it catches there’ll be burnt flecks in it, and if the eggs aren’t mixed there’ll be white specks. You should almost be able to see through good lemon butter. Now, you check on the chicken stew too. Don’t worry if it tastes too spicy. That’s the vinegar, but it’ll mellow as it cooks. And here’s Jamie. Trust the boy to get here just as the lemon butter’s almost done. Set the table, will you, Hannah love, and we’ll have a cuppa before you go out with your books.’
Hannah took the mismatched crockery from the dresser. The farm seemed her true home now. Every day she left the schoolmaster’s house as soon as Papa did, and came back just before he returned. Except for the weekends and school holidays, which were filled with luncheons with Mr Harris and his wife, who clearly felt they should entertain Papa and Hannah in Mama’s absence; or going to church and on picnics with families from the school who felt sorry for them too.
Hannah had been surprised by how nice everyone was. Many of the girls who had laughed at her had come up to say they were sorry about Angus and to ask how he was. But her conversations with them always seemed to get stuck; often when she mentioned someone and then had to explain they were a character in a book. Then the girls would giggle at her again.
And when she’d told Mrs Fallott, who’d asked her and Papa to a picnic, that Grandma’s housekeeper, Mary, was Aboriginal and the best housekeeper Grandma had ever known, because Mrs Fallott had been saying stupid things about Aboriginal people, Mrs Fallott just said ‘Well!’ and never asked her or Papa anywhere again.
That was the week Hannah and Jamie had been reading Mark Twain’s books about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Hannah said the books showed Mark Twain was against slavery, but Jamie said Mark Twain just made black people sound dumb. That was the closest they ever came to talking about the unspoken rule that shaped their lives: that they might be friends at the farm and on the beach, but they could never show their friendship where anyone but Mama or Mrs Zebediah might see them.
They read a bit of Socrates’ dialogues next, just to see what they were like — most of them were too dull to read — and Hannah told Jamie how Socrates had been killed by the Athenian citizens for encouraging young people to debate with their elders, though they both agreed that Socrates seemed to have the last word in all the discussions anyway.
Jamie had liked Mr Midshipman Easy while Hannah had been bored by it; and he’d hated all of Jane Austen’s novels, saying they just showed that rich people had nothing interesting to do. And it didn’t matter at all that they disagreed.
‘Beach or tree?’ Jamie asked now, spreading hot lemon butter on his scones.
Hannah considered. The beach was a place of joy now. She had even learned to help pull in the net. The trick was to do it slowly, making sure the top edge didn’t dip down and let the fish escape. But there was also a giant native fig tree just up from the beach, with twenty-four vast roots on either side of its trunk. If you climbed up the tallest of them you came to an almost level branch where two people could lie on their stomachs and read, or watch the whales make their steady journeys across the sea.
‘Tree,’ she decided.
‘Now don’t you two forget to come in for lunch,’ Mrs Zebediah reminded them. ‘I’ll be expecting you as soon as the sun is the other side of Eagle Rock.’
Hannah grabbed the book they were reading — Ben-Hur by Lew Wallace, an American, and set in Israel in ancient Roman times. It was exciting but also strange to find that back then slaves were mostly white and kings could be black.
They ran down to the beach. Hannah took her shoes off automatically now as it was harder to climb in buttoned boots; and even without them Jamie had to give her a hand up. They settled in their favourite positions, Hannah leaning against the trunk and Jamie sitting astride the branch further down, and looked out at the beach. The breeze this morning had turned the sea into a mass of white ruffles. Hannah began to read, the whisper of the waves and the seagull’s call a background to the words.
‘Look out there!’ Suddenly Jamie pointed out to sea. ‘A pod of whales.’
Hannah counted the distant black shapes. ‘Six of them, I think. Oh, that one leaped!’ She could almost hear the splash as it met the water again, even though the whales were far beyond the sandbank.
‘That’s what I’d like to do,’ said Jamie.
‘Leap like a whale?’
‘Travel like a whale. Just go from place to place.’
‘I’d rather travel in books,’ said Hannah. ‘You don’t get shipwrecked in books, except in your imagination, like in Robinson Crusoe.’
‘But then you only see what the writer saw. I want to see for myself.’
‘You could be a sailor.’ Hannah had seen dark-skinned sailors on the Sydney waterfront, and there was the dark-skinned sailor in Moby Dick of course.
‘And live on corned beef and ship’s biscuit and go where the captain says and maybe be sold to someone like Mr Harris? No, thanks. Some of Dad’s friends thought they were going to be sailors and ended up here.’
‘There must be books that tell you how to build a proper boat,’ Hannah said. ‘A big one.’
‘You think everything is in books.’
‘There are encyclopaedias. We had a set at Papa’s last school. They tell you about everything, from A to Z.’
‘But do they tell you how to do things? Like how to build a boat.’
‘No.’
‘Not much use then. I’d need to learn proper carpentry if I want to build a boat — a lot more than just how to repair a door. And I’d need to know how to sail, and more about weather.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘I know enough about the sea to know there’s too much I don’t know. Things your ma can’t teach me, or books neither.’
At last Jamie glanced at the angle of the sun. ‘We’d better be getting back.’
He clambered down, then held up his arms to help her. She could have slid, as he did, but that would make stains on her dress, the kind that didn’t wash out with a quick scrub in the waterhole.
He let her go quickly — he never touched her for long — then looked back at the sea, just a glimpse now through the undergrowth.
‘Are you dreaming of being a whale again?’
She meant it as a joke. But he shook his head, then met her eyes.
‘I was thinking that I’m happier today than I’ve ever been in my life.’
She flushed, because she knew why. It was the same reason she was happy. Because her mind was able to wander wherever it wanted; to learn whatever her curiosity showed her; and because for the first time she had a friend to wander these paths with.
But ther
e was sadness mixed with the joy, because soon their wandering through the pages of life together, just the two of them, would end. Mama would return to Port Harris and give them proper lessons again. Maybe she would let them study down on the beach occasionally, though never up the fig tree.
CHAPTER 24
SECRETS
31 Crest Road, Mosman, Sydney
20 July 1901
My dearest Hannah,
Thank you for your last letter. I am so proud you are managing everything so well, and caring for the house and Papa is not too much for you. I am glad that Mrs Murphy is doing her work properly. Please tell her it is time to mix flour and water and borax — the same amount of flour as borax — and press it along the skirting boards to kill any cockroaches, as they will be breeding again when the weather warms.
I miss you deeply but it has been wonderful to catch up with friends again. Last night your uncle and aunt took me to a concert at the Conservatorium of Music, while my friends Enid and Rachel looked after Angus and Monkey, who now has a friend called Mr Giraffe.
Uncle Ron and Aunt Helen send their love, and Angus says Monkey and Mr Giraffe send their love too. Please give my very best regards to Mrs Zebediah when you see her at the market.
Your loving mother,
Mama
***
Sunday, and a chill wind rustled the palm trees. Hannah sat on the veranda in her Sunday dress, her hair neatly braided — she no longer bothered during the week now — and tried to read. At church this morning the father of one of Papa’s pupils had asked him to come and look at his new horse and stay for lunch. His wife hadn’t invited Hannah, nor did she want to go. But she was bored.
Suddenly she realised there was no reason not to go to the farm today. Papa wouldn’t be back till late. The fish she’d bought at the market yesterday sat in the Coolgardie safe, and it would only take her twenty minutes to make fried fish with chips for their dinner. Papa loved fish and chips, and if he returned early she could say she had gone for a walk up in Mr Harris’s garden, which would be true as she’d cross his land to get to the farm.
She changed quickly into an old dress — a little too short, with a hem that couldn’t be let down any more, and darns under the arms — and hurried out the front gate and up the road. She was about to head across the paddocks when she hesitated, then hurriedly picked a bunch of bright red hibiscus for Mrs Zebediah. They’d wilt by tonight, even in water, but there were few flowers at this time of year and the red would look pretty on the kitchen table.
No barks from Boodle as Hannah crossed the paddock. He must be taking Sunday off too, she thought with a grin. Horrible dog.
She had just slid through the final fence when she heard a woman scream. She stopped, trying to work out where the sound had come from. Suddenly more screams ripped the air. Men’s voices joined in, and there was an eerie wailing noise.
The sounds were coming from over the hill, near the sheds, Hannah realised. She should stay away. It was private property. But she couldn’t ignore cries like that, and Mr Harris had given her permission to walk on his land. She began to run, holding up her skirts.
‘Hannah love, what are you doing here?’ Mrs Zebediah appeared over the crest of the hill, panting, a large empty basket over her arm.
Jamie was with her, not panting, but with an expression Hannah had never seen before — of helplessness and anger.
‘Come away,’ he said abruptly, taking her arm.
She wrenched it free. ‘No! What’s happening?’
‘Nothing we can do aught about, Hannah love,’ said Mrs Zebediah urgently.
The screaming grew louder, then suddenly ceased, apart from a woman’s sobs, and then another sound, a bit like Papa wielding the cane. A cry cut the air again. Impossible to tell if it was a man, a woman or an animal.
‘Come down to the farm, Hannah love. Please.’
‘No.’ Because it was obvious they wouldn’t tell her what was happening, and she was tired of being left out of the world. Mama and Angus were off doing things in Sydney, while she just sat on the veranda, not even part of Port Harris. If she hadn’t made Jamie angry she would never have known about the Islanders and the sheds, the people who made life possible in Port Harris. She hadn’t even seen any Islanders, except sometimes a party of men off to another part of the plantation under the eye of a white foreman.
She began to run again, towards the noise, heard Mrs Zebediah calling, ‘Bring her back!’ Heard Jamie’s feet thudding behind her, then next to her.
‘Hannah, stop.’ He spoke more softly now.
‘No.’
‘Please, Hannah!’
She didn’t reply. Nor did he urge her again.
They were close to the sounds now. She ran through the vegetable gardens — they were deserted. Wasn’t Sunday the only day the Islanders had to tend them? Where was everyone?
Suddenly Jamie grabbed her again, hard, and pulled her back to the wall of one of the sheds. He began to creep along it with an expression that seemed to say: ‘If you insist on this, we have to do it this way.’
The noise continued, changing now to sobs and harsh cries.
Jamie gestured to her at the end of the shed, and stood back. Hannah peered around the corner.
A space as large as a football field was filled with people, dark-skinned, with curly hair like Jamie’s: men in ragged trousers and blue serge shirts; women in shapeless dresses made of serge or sugar sacks, with babies in their arms, or toddlers or wide-eyed children. None of them saw her. They all looked at the man in front.
His wrists and ankles had been tied to two wooden poles, leaving his arms and legs outstretched. His chest was bare. Next to him, a white man in moleskins and a yellow shirt pulled a whip back as if he were going to throw a cricket ball, then lashed it onto the man’s back. Blood had already pooled onto the ground below. Three more white men stood behind, shotguns ready, facing the crowd.
A woman’s sobs rose from nearby, but Hannah couldn’t see her. Another lash. Soft groans arose among those watching, as if they felt the blows as well.
Why don’t they try to stop it, thought Hannah desperately. Three men with guns couldn’t stop them all.
But what would happen if they did try? They’d probably go to prison if they hurt a white man. That meant it was up to her. Mr Harris wouldn’t put her in prison.
She took a step, then found Jamie’s hands holding her back. She wriggled, but couldn’t get free.
‘Let go!’ she whispered.
‘You won’t stop it.’ His voice was almost too soft to hear. ‘You think you’re the first to try? Come on.’ He tugged her back.
‘No!’
‘You’ll make it worse!’
‘How?’ she demanded in a whisper.
‘Come back and I’ll tell you. But you can’t wait here. Anyway, there’s only five more lashes to go.’
‘Only five!’
‘You’ll make it worse,’ he repeated.
This time she did follow him, along the edge of the shed and down through the vegetable garden. She stopped as soon as they were over the hill.
‘Tell me why I shouldn’t have tried to stop it. And don’t tell me it might have hurt Papa’s job. That man might die!’
‘Probably will.’ Jamie’s voice was harsh. ‘And if you’d gone out there, another man would have been whipped too.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Other people have tried to stop the whippings. Guests from down south who’ve seen it; a missionary from one of the churches too. That’s why Mr Harris made the rule. If anyone tries to stop it, two are whipped instead of one.’
It was too cruel to be true. But Hannah had already seen something too cruel to be true, and the worst — almost the worst — had been the helplessness of the people watching, their faces showing they had no choice but to endure in any way they could, or die.
‘Why was that man whipped?’ she asked. ‘For not working?’
‘Tried to
escape. You only get one lash for stopping work. Too many would mean they wouldn’t be able to go back to work. Fifty lashes for any Islander who tries to leave the plantation.’ He paused, as if it was too much for him. At last he added, ‘Mum and I went up there with a pot of stew and boiled bandages and a salve Mum makes — the men get blisters and ulcers — any scratch can get infected when you’re working cane. But Ezekiel, he’s one of the shed leaders, told us to get away quickly this afternoon as there’d be a whipping.’
‘How was the poor man caught?’
There were only two ways to leave the sheds, she thought: down through the Zebediahs’ place, who wouldn’t betray him; or the way she had come. All the other ways led to undergrowth so thick you needed a machete to get through it, which would slow you down so you’d be easily caught. And even small boats didn’t risk the sandbank in Pirate’s Cove. But Hannah herself had been going to and from the farm nearly every day and no one had seen her. If that poor man had escaped at night, surely he’d be free now. There were roads he could follow from Port Harris, or a ship might even take him on as crew . . .
‘I reckon that would be me, little lady,’ said a voice.
It was Mr Murphy. He stood there, belly surging against his shirt, though he wore a hat today. Boodle sat at his bare, dirty feet.
‘Saw you come up here. Thought I might stop and have a listen in afore I spoke to you. You’re in trouble, little missy. You wait till your pa hears about this. And Mr Harris too.’
Suddenly it was as though Mama was with her, and Grandma too, both whispering, ‘Don’t let this man win.’
Hannah looked him in the eyes. ‘How dare you, Mr Murphy. What are you doing here?’
He hadn’t expected that. He stared at her. ‘Doin’ my job, missy.’ He flapped his empty sleeve. ‘Don’t you think this means I can’t do a job of work. We got the important job on the plantation, me and Boodle.’ He grinned, recovering his confidence, showing black teeth again. ‘We’re the guards. Boodle here barks, and I find out why he’s barking. I saw him,’ Mr Murphy nodded towards Jamie, ‘settin’ off the day he tried to get into your pa’s school. Made sure there was a welcome committee waitin’ for him the next day, so he knew to stay out of town. I seen you too, walkin’ up behind our place.’
The Schoolmaster's Daughter Page 18
